


Till I End My Song

by nickelsandcoats



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="%E2%80%9Chttp://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/3114.html?thread=8383786#t8383786%E2%80%9D">this prompt</a> at <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/"><b>sherlockbbc_fic</b></a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till I End My Song

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from “The Fire Sermon” section of T.S. Eliot’s _The Waste Land_ :  
> “Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,  
> Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.”

  
John sat on the edge of his and Sherlock’s bed and clutched at his hair, pulling on it in an effort to stave off another PTSD attack. Ever since Moriarty, since the pool, John’s PTSD had been more and more violent, to the point where he was seriously afraid of hurting someone. John’s gentleness would disappear when a bout hit him. He became violent, angry, lashing out at anyone who tried to show him pity or compassion. Sherlock had given up trying to talk John down from the ledge a month ago, knowing that his attempts to break through John’s psyche were futile and in fact, made John worse. But he was always there whenever John had an attack; he hovered in the background, observing, and stepping in only if it seemed John was about to seriously injure himself. And when the attack was over and John was curled in a ball on the floor, clutching his knees to his chest and smearing tears and snot on his trousers, Sherlock would curl up behind him, smoothing his hand down John’s arm, pressing kisses into John’s hair, breathing soft words of comfort into his ear. They would lay like that for hours until John stopped trembling and dropped off into an uneasy slumber.

After each of his attacks, John would wait until he was alone and take out his gun, checking to see that a bullet was chambered, clicking off the safety, and pressing the gun to his temple, finger on the trigger. He would sit there like that for long minutes before he’d finally take a deep shuddering breath and ease his finger off the trigger, pull the gun from his temple, put the safety on, and put the gun away in his drawer. And when Sherlock came back home after those sessions, John would be waiting for him, smiling as if there was nothing wrong.

*

But Sherlock, never fully comfortable with emotions, was having a hard time dealing with John’s attacks, and John knew it. Each one drove Sherlock a little further away from him, even as Sherlock still wrapped himself tightly around John after each attack, even after they made love or kissed or hugged. Another side effect of his PTSD made John extremely clingy—if Sherlock was gone for more than an hour, John texted him every five minutes to make sure he was all right. If they were at home, Sherlock couldn’t be out of John’s sight or else the doctor would spiral into a violent panic attack. Sherlock answered each of John’s messages and was careful to always stay in John’s eyeline when they were home, but John knew that not being able to go on the chase was wearing down on Sherlock, no matter how much the detective told him that he could solve cases just as easily at home.

John felt guilty for pushing his lover away from him, for forcing Sherlock to deal with emotional issues that he was not equipped to handle. John knew that his attacks were wearing his lover down: Sherlock had gone back to his old habits of barely eating or sleeping. He had dark circles under his eyes and always looked harried and haggard, as if John’s problems were weighing him down, too. John missed that sparkle in Sherlock’s eye, the joy the man took in simple things. There was no joy in Sherlock now, and that was all John Watson’s fault.

John knew what he had to do to keep Sherlock from falling with him. After all, John was just a washed-up soldier who couldn’t do anything any more—the PTSD made his hand tremors come back, and they wouldn’t go away. He was afraid to leave the house for fear of getting kidnapped again, or worse, having an attack in public and hurting some innocent bystander. If John couldn’t work, couldn’t go out and help Sherlock, couldn’t even let the man have his own life because of John’s pathetic need to keep the man in his sight lest something happen to him while John wasn’t looking, then what good was he? No good at all.

He was a burden, a weight dragging Sherlock down.

And burdens like him couldn’t be shouldered forever.

So, John set a plan in motion, being careful not to let Sherlock on to what he was planning. After serious consideration, he dismissed his gun as too messy—he didn’t want to leave Sherlock with a mess to clean up. The mess factor ruled out slitting his wrists, too. There weren’t any sturdy beams or closet rods to hang himself from. That left drugs or poison. He had refused to take the sleeping pills prescribed to him after the pool incident, and he had half a bottle of painkillers left from his last refill. He knew Sherlock had some anti-emesis drugs left over from a case, and there were a few unused syringes in his med kit. That settled, he waited until Sherlock was gone to write his note. He finished signing his name to it as Sherlock ran up their stairs, so he quickly stuffed it in an envelope and shoved it deep in one of his little-used bureau drawers before going downstairs where Sherlock greeted him with a small smile and a kiss.

*

Sherlock didn’t leave the flat for a few days, and it was five days after John wrote his note before Sherlock’s phone rang. It had to have been Lestrade with a case from the way Sherlock sat up with his eyes gleaming.  
John was sitting in his armchair, gripping the newspaper tightly so his hand tremor wouldn’t shake the page, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock told Lestrade he’d be there as soon as possible and hung up.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“I need to go to a crime scene. It’s near the Brixton Tube station. Remember, Mrs. Hudson is at her sister’s, so if you need anything, call me. I’ll try to be back in an hour, all right?”

“Right, yes, fine. I’ll be here,” John said with a self-deprecating smile.

Sherlock bounced off the sofa and stopped in front of John, leaning down and capturing the doctor’s lips in a deep, passionate kiss. When Sherlock pulled back, he leaned his forehead against John’s, one long hand cupping John’s cheek as he stared into John’s eyes and murmured, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” John mumbled around the sudden lump in his throat. _He’s just saying that because he feels obligated to, don’t take it seriously—he’s said it hundreds of times just because he feels he has to,_ John thought as Sherlock leaned in for one more brief kiss before bounding away to grab his coat and rush out the door.

It was time.

John stood on perfectly steady legs and went upstairs. He pulled out the letter from its hiding place in his bureau and set it on the nightstand where Sherlock would be able to see it. He pulled out his medical kit and popped open a steripacked syringe and the little bottle of anti-emesis drugs Sherlock had stashed away. He calmly filled the syringe, flicked the air out of it, and pushed the needle into his arm, depressing the plunger. His hands were perfectly steady as he pulled the needle out and sat it on the nightstand. He got up and went into their bathroom, where he filled a glass with water and picked up the pill bottles.

He sat back down on the bed and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. Sherlock had been gone for 7 minutes now. He waited another three to give the anti-emesis drug time to take effect before he opened the bottle of painkillers and swallowed them down two at a time, chasing each dose with a sip of water. When the bottle was empty, he opened the bottle of sleeping pills and did the same. After he swallowed all the pills, he felt a bit woozy from the painkillers, and so he laid down, clutching his mobile in one hand. Long minutes passed where all he could hear was the thundering beat of his own heart slow little by little. Finally, just when he could bear it no longer, he opened his mobile. Sherlock had been gone for half an hour, long enough to be too far away to help him. He pressed his speed dial and listened to Sherlock’s mobile ring.

“John?”

“’m sorry, Sh’lock. ‘m sorry for this. I love you. ‘member tha’ for me, Sh’lock. I loved you an’ tha’s why I had to do this.”

“Do what? John? JOHN!”

John hung up.

He closed his eyes and welcomed the blackness.

*

Sherlock’s heart dropped into his stomach as he closed his mobile and shouted for Lestrade.

“I need to get back to Baker Street, now,” he gritted out between clenched teeth as he grabbed Lestrade’s elbow and dragged him towards a patrol car.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade spluttered. “Wait. Why do you need to go back—you just got here,” he said as he opened the driver’s door.

Sherlock fairly sprinted around the car and flung himself into the passenger seat. “Because that was John on the phone and I think he’s trying to commit suicide right now.”

“Christ!” Lestrade put the car in gear and flicked on the siren and lights, speeding back towards Baker Street.

When they arrived, Sherlock nearly dropped his keys twice before his shaking fingers managed to shove them in the lock and open them. He raced up their stairs, eyes flicking wildly over the empty sofa as he turned and charged up the stairs to their bedroom, shoving open the door, Lestrade on his heels.

Sherlock nearly collapsed at the sight of John stretched out on top of their bed, eyes closed, one hand still clutched around his mobile. Sherlock recovered and dropped to his knees at the side of the bed, pushing his fingers against John’s neck and praying he would feel a pulse. He held his breath and pressed harder, finally feeling the barest fluttering under his fingers.

“There’s a pulse!” he shouted at Lestrade, who was barking orders to a 999 operator on his mobile.

Sherlock ran his hands over John’s face, shaking him gently. His vision blurred and he scrubbed one shaking hand across his eyes as he looked around for a clue as to what John had done. He saw the pill bottles on the floor and scooped them up, noting they were John’s painkillers and sleeping pills before shoving the empty bottles into his coat pocket. He saw the syringe next with the little bottle of anti-emesis medication and groaned. John was a doctor, after all, and knew the chance of vomiting up the medication before the overdose could kick in was high—of course he would’ve used the anti-emesis medication. And then Sherlock saw the envelope with his name on it. He took it with shaking fingers and shoved it into his pocket with the bottles as the paramedics burst into the room and took John away.

Lestrade drove Sherlock to the hospital and offered to sit with him, but Sherlock brushed him off, reminding the DI of his crime scene. Lestrade left with a tight squeeze to Sherlock’s shoulder and a promise to call in an hour for news.

Once Lestrade was gone, Sherlock took out the envelope and opened it, pulling out a sheet of paper. Steeling himself, he opened it and started to read.

 _Sherlock,_

 _First, I wanted to let you know how sorry I am. I’m sorry for dragging you down with me these past few months. I’m sorry for not being the partner I should be. I’m sorry for not being who you needed me to be._

 _I saw what I was doing to you—keeping you from doing what you do best. I noticed that you weren’t the same, and that was my fault, and I’m sorry._

 _I know you loved the man I was before It happened, and I couldn’t stand the thought of you being obligated to love the shell I am I now._

 _I couldn’t let you hurt yourself any more, Sherlock. I know you would never make the choice to leave me, so I did it for you._

 _I love you, Sherlock, and I can’t bear to think that I was the one who made you less than you are supposed to be._

 _Know me to be, always,  
Very sincerely yours,  
John_

Sherlock clutched the letter tightly enough to hear the paper crumple in his hands as he sat in the uncomfortable waiting room chair for news.

Two hours later, a doctor came out asking for the family of John Watson. Sherlock stood on weak and shaky knees and had to stumble back into his chair when the doctor told him that they had managed to get John’s stomach cleared of the pills. He would be fine, even though it had been touch and go for a while. Sherlock would be able to go see him in an hour, once they were sure he was stable. Sherlock nodded his thanks to the doctor and put his head between his knees, breathing deeply.

When the hour was up, Sherlock went back to see John, who looked smaller under the wires and tubes. Several monitors beeped softly as Sherlock sank down into the visitor’s chair and took John’s hand, rubbing his thumb over John’s palm.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Sherlock whispered as he settled in to wait.

*

Hours later, John’s eyes fluttered open. The first thing he felt was Sherlock’s hand clenched tightly around his. Sherlock’s face swam into view as he blinked and tried to force his eyes to focus.

“How are you feeling?”

“Mmph.” John licked his lips and tried again. “Like hell.”

There was a long pause before Sherlock’s grip tightened further. “Don’t ever, ever do that to me again, John,” he said, voice cracking.

John struggled to sit up, alarmed. Sherlock was crying, actually crying over him.

“You have no idea what it did to me to see you lying on our bed, so still and barely alive. And that note? Nearly did me in.” Sherlock leaned in and gently pressed his lips to John’s forehead. “I love you. And to think that I love you out of some obligation is ludicrous. You are as necessary to me as my own heart and lungs. You are essential, John. Without you, I’d be lost.”

John was silent. Sherlock sat back and regarded him fiercely. “I’m sorry that I didn’t figure out how deep your pain was before it came to this, John. I’ve been preoccupied with finding…him and trying to figure out how best to help you overcome your attacks and I feel so helpless, John, watching you suffer like that and knowing I can’t do a damn thing about it except to hold you when it’s over.” Sherlock stopped talking, nostrils flaring as he tried to compose himself. John watched him with wide eyes.

“I want you to promise me something, John. If you love me, and I know you do, you have to promise me that if you ever feel this way again that you’ll tell me about it so we can work through it. I don’t want you to put yourself through this again. You’re not alone, John, not anymore. _In arduis fidelis,_ remember? I’m not going anywhere.”

John couldn’t speak through his sobs, but he knew that Sherlock would understand what his eyes were trying to say: _I’m sorry. I’m glad I’m alive. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad I’m not alone. I love you._

Sherlock gave him a watery smile and squeezed his hand. “I love you, too. Now, sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.” He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to John’s lips as the doctor slipped back to sleep, his breaths steady and even.

Sherlock didn’t think he would ever tire of listening to John breathe. He counted each breath John took until the doctor woke again the next morning, 6,403 breaths later, and Sherlock was grateful for each one.


End file.
